transfer
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I hear twisted words
Like leaves on a vine.
Words jumbled through punctured ears,
Words people dine
upon.
Vicious, rapid, jumbled they sing.
They catch a flying bird
And twist its wing
With 1800 hands
in my mind,
I carved initials into my eyes.
I turned down my volume
to see vernacular art,
Blinking morse code the way to my heart,
Only to hear you squeak:
Know that parental and financial conditions,
flew me to another nation,
where words must go under translation.
Ordained to this situation,
I progessed through error and correction,
Trudging my feet across the street
Waiting underneath a foggy, humid sky,
Yet again, the bus is late.
An hour long ride from my home to school
Foreign music blasting my eardrums
All I can think is
I don’t want to go there
I don’t want to go there
I’ve always refused to go there
Tour there
Talk about there
Other than the dropping of a name or two
